Dear Eli,

I'm sorry I haven't called. I've been thinking a lot lately. I know that sounds kind of bad. I swear I'm not trying to be – I don't know…

With a frustrated snort, Harvey savagely crumples the paper in his fist and poises his pen tensely over the fresh sheet beneath it.

Dear Eli,

I wish I'd never left. I don't know how to come back to you now. I'm not sure you'd even want me anymore, after that. I should have –

"Fuck you," he whispers to himself under his breath, rereading the lines with an unbearable degree of humiliation before he crumples that one as well. This is how he'd spent the last three weeks – all three of which he'd been spending in his childhood bedroom, sulking and thinking only of his boyfriend.

Ex-boyfriend now, probably.

It wasn't… entirely his fault. Eli might have been a little less candid about his weird affair with Roger. It wasn't completely unexpected, and honestly, Harvey wouldn't have cared so much, if it were anyone but Roger.

That smug bastard was probably still smirking about that. Fucking asshole.

Harvey stared down in utter dismay at the blank page. The floor was littered with piss-poor, half-written apologies and tearful soliloquies. He wishes desperately that he'd never taken a creative writing class. It's completely destroyed his ability to write anything without using some shitty metaphor, even a letter.

Eli loved his poetry, usually. But this wasn't usually.

Eli had probably burned all of the poetry he'd written for him by now – with Roger's lighter. He fights a sneer, even though Eli's not here to see it and fret about what's got him down.

Oh God. Why did I leave? Why couldn't I just –

It was panic, pure and simple. He had no better excuse. No real way to apologize, either. Even if he did pick up the phone and call Eli, he doubted he'd answer it. They had caller ID and Eli was more than intelligent enough to know his family's Texan area code by now.

And it's not like I can just go for a jaunt and bump into him…

He knew exactly why Eli had told him so soon and so suddenly. He was scared. He had to get tested – he had to deal with the uncertainty, now, and with the fact that he'd cheated, and now Harvey thinks of him at home in their apartment crying his eyes out into a pillow, alone and trembling and miserable, and he hates himself for leaving him like that.

(Worse, he imagines Roger – Roger climbing down the stairs, Roger cautiously, awkwardly pulling Eli into his arms to comfort him like Harvey hadn't, beating him again.)

He groans, burying his face in his hands and slumping over the desk in defeat.

He can't do this right now. Can't think. Definitely can't write.

So instead he falls into bed and shuts himself away from the world for another day.

He wakes to his breath being knocked bodily out of him, and would have rolled out of bed if not for the fact that someone was sitting in his lap.

"Ken," he starts groggily, annoyance bubbling quickly to the surface, but when he manages to peel his eyes open it's not his obnoxious brother who greets him. It's –

"Merry Christmas," Eli says shyly, peeking at him through his dark eyelashes, and Harvey loses his train of thought completely.

"Ah –" He tries, staring openly, his hands coming to rest tentatively on his skinny waist almost without thought. It's not really his fault that he can't find his words, but most things are his fault right now and he might as well lump this in with it all. "Hon?"

"I know you don't want to see me," Eli blurts hastily, eyes very wide and very, sickeningly apologetic. Another pang of guilt renders him speechless for a critical moment, in which Eli continues to ramble as though his life depends on it, clutching his shoulders. "But I called – and your mom – and your brothers, they all said – I could come."

He finishes in a rush and peers at him anxiously, as if waiting for an ultimatum.

Harvey reaches up to drag him down beside him, arms wrapping so tightly around him he's liable to squish him to death. "I'll never stop wanting to see you every second of the goddamn day. Merry Christmas, hon," he rasps, and buries his face into Eli's shoulder so that he won't see the tears pricking his eyes.

Eli coos and presses closer into his embrace, rubbing his head into Harvey's hand when he reaches up to thread his fingers into his lover's curly hair.

He thinks of the ring box still nestled in his bag. He thinks of all those useless hours he spent moping when he could have been on a plane, or back in their apartment, or on the damn phone, at least.

He thinks of his brother and his mother, probably grinning smugly at each other downstairs by the Christmas tree, and then quickly banishes that thought from his mind.

"Are you sure?" Eli whispers, and all he can do is nod vigorously against his shoulder.

God, yes, he's sure.

He'd forgive him a thousand times if there was even anything to forgive.

There's still a lot to be done. First, he has book them a flight back to New York so he can beat the shit out of Roger. Then they have to wait for the results – but no, this isn't the time to be thinking about that.

For God's sakes, it's Christmas.

"I'm just glad that you're here," he manages, knowing that Eli won't accept an apology, that he thinks everything is his own fault. He'll talk him out of that later. Right now, he just wants to lie here with him – to touch, and kiss, and bask in their shared body heat while no one is bothering them.

"I'm sorry," Eli starts, and Harvey cuts him off with a kiss.